


Method In It

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a future without his abilities or his destiny, Sam thinks they should quit while they're ahead. Dean requires a little extra convincing, though less than either of them expects.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Method In It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickeym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/gifts).



Dean never expected to see his thirtieth birthday. Not _before_ he made his deal, and sure as hell not once he traded his soul for something more important. Life is short, especially for a Winchester. Live fast, hunt hard, and keep Sammy safe (not necessarily in that order). It's Dean's motto, his mantra, the method to his madness. It's not a complicated pattern, and the end result isn't hard to predict.

Except apparently Dean knows jack squat about endings or predicting them, because _this_ isn't one he saw coming. Making it through on the power of Sam's geek-boy brain, skins and souls barely the worse for wear, and by now Dean is riding on more second chances than anyone's allowed to have. He still doesn't understand the mechanics of what Sam did, but after his brother's fiftieth attempt to explain, Dean finally decided he didn't need to know. Something to do with trading in the psychic freak powers, and they've both stayed pretty content in a world without. Sam doesn't get visions that split his head in two, and Dean doesn't have to watch them tear his brother apart.

He still wonders sometimes, about the bigger scheme of things. The cosmic order, battle of good and evil, and who knows what the grander cost of this trade might be. He only wonders for minutes at a time, though. Because then there's _Sam_ , and just looking at him calms the lingering fears. There's a bright clarity in his brother's eyes ever since that night, an easing of his shoulders that hasn't left since.

So no, Dean never expected to see thirty. And he sure as hell never expected to see it with Sam.

 

The Winchesters have never had much use for presents, birthdays just one more day of each year. But Sam bought _cupcakes_ , and Dean is more than down with that. They're slightly squished, the plastic carton crunched in on one side, but the little plastic Spiderman rings on top more than make up for it. Dean wolfs down three cupcakes in record time just to see the startled look of disgust on Sam's face. The rings don't even fit his pinky fingers, but the frosting is delicious, and _that's_ what goddamn matters.

"Happy birthday?" Sam says, eyebrows up to his hairline.

"You're the best brother _ever_ ," says Dean, snapping the carton closed and setting the rest of the cupcakes on the bedspread beside him. He takes the time to carefully lick each finger clean.

"I'll remind you later that you said so."

"I'm not going to _believe_ you later."

"You're such an ass."

"But an adorable one."

Sam either doesn't have an answer to that or doesn't bother to share, and Dean smirks into the silence that means victory.

He only gets a moment's gloating time before Sam levels him a suddenly somber look. Dean isn't sure what it means, but he scoots to make room when Sam comes to sit by him.

"So I've been thinking--"

"Not my favorite way to hear you start a sentence, dude," Dean cuts him off, because that tone is cautious in just the right ways to set off _all_ his warning bells.

"Yeah," Sam concedes, sheepish. "Hear me out anyway?"

Dean nods (because what other response can he give?) and watches Sam fidget for a full minute. There's still sunlight sneaking in past the curtains, tinted gold with impending sunset, and it highlights a new determination in his brother's face.

"What do you think about settling somewhere?" Sam finally asks. "Just to give it a go?"

"Settling somewhere?" Dean repeats, unhelpful, because one sentence in and he's already lost.

"Yeah. Settling. Just… picking a town and sticking to it for awhile. We can stop all this, find something else to do with ourselves."

"Quit _hunting_?" Dean feels his eyebrows rise. "Sam, we can't do that."

"Why not? We could do _anything_ , and there's other people out there who can handle this shit."

"Not enough of them," says Dean, and Sam looking away concedes the point eloquently enough.

"Maybe we've done enough, Dean. At the rate we're going we can't have many chances _left_ , and I refuse to feel guilty for wanting to get out while--…" Sam stalls in the middle of the sentence, so suddenly that Dean feels it like whiplash. It's suspicious, strange for the Sam of these past couple years not to just come out and say what he's thinking.

"While _what_ , Sam?" he prods, not really expecting to win himself a clarification. He's startled at the look of open defiance when his brother finally meets his eyes.

"While I still _have_ you," Sam says, voice thick with emotion and challenge, _daring_ Dean to mock him for it.

He can't mock Sam for this, not when the sentiment reverberates in his chest and catches his breath in his throat. Not when he knows how many times they've cut it too damn close. Sam's words echo his own thoughts, that _no one_ gets this many second chances, and for the first time Dean really entertains the idea that they could quit while they're ahead.

"Okay, say we quit." His head starts running the possibilities. "Say we find somewhere to hole up, stay off the FBI's radar. Don't you want to go back to school or something?"

"Maybe. Eventually. Hell, settling down and going back to school aren't mutually exclusive." And okay, maybe in retrospect Dean feels a little silly about that question.

"Still," he says, feels an unpleasant thought lodge low in his gut. "Maybe we shouldn't play it this way."

"What way?" Sam asks, entire posture suddenly rigid with confusion.

"Maybe we should split up instead. We'll be harder to track if we're apart." He hates to say it (hates to _think_ it). He probably fails at hiding the fact that the idea makes him physically ill, sets a cold fist squeezing tight around his heart and threatening to steal his breath away. He wonders if Sam will take him up on it just the same.

The next instant is _not_ one he could've seen coming, not with psychic powers or five hundred shakes of a Magic 8 Ball ( _reply hazy, try again_ ). Because Sam surges at him, _kisses_ him, mutters a string of curses between each crush of lips as he drags Dean close.

"You _stupid_ -(kiss)- self-sacrificing -(kiss)- selfish -(kiss)- _jackass_!"

Dean waits until Sam is done (kissing _and_ cursing him) before drawing back far enough to meet his brother's eyes. There's fire there, longing, and Dean doesn't know how _this_ is the first he's noticing.

"Sam?"

"This is what I want," Sam says, an easy shrug of shoulders completely undone by the intense burn of certainty in his eyes. "I need to know if it's just me or if you want it, too."

"Sam," Dean says again, because his voice is working on default in the absence of capable brain cells, and 'Sam' seems to be all he knows how to say.

"If you don't want this, then we try it your way," Sam clarifies. "Split up, make ourselves harder to track. Otherwise--"

The thing is, their world is full of tough choices, and this? Isn't one of them. Dean's mind is made by the time he cuts Sam off, dives and crashes and buries himself back in his brother's embrace. The press of lips is rough and sure, Sam's mouth opening greedily to let his tongue slide deep. He rolls willingly with it when Sam shifts and maneuvers, moves to press Dean down into the mattress.

The crunch of hard plastic coincides with a sharp stab of pain at his back, and Dean yelps a startled " _Fuck_!" as he realizes the cupcakes are trying to take out one of his kidneys.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry!" Sammy to the rescue, and Dean rubs at his abused back as he watches the plastic container with all three remaining cupcakes sail across the room to land on the other bed.

"You okay?" Sam asks, hand skirting along Dean's ribs.

"Peachy." Dean forces himself to stop rubbing at his offended flesh. "I've had way worse." Which is apparently enough to ruin the mood, because the look on Sam's face is suddenly pensive enough that Dean _has_ to ask, "Dude, _what_?"

"Just thinking again." Dean rolls his eyes but doesn't interrupt. "The feds are looking for _brothers_ , you know."

"And?" Dean prompts, pretty sure he knows where this is going already.

"And maybe we should forge some extra paperwork. Get a couple rings."

"You want to get married," Dean supplies, because call it what it _is_ , and it is _the_ girliest thing Sam has ever suggested.

"It'd help us stay under the radar," Sam points out, all calm sense and logic that Dean doesn't believe for a second.

But he still hears himself say, "Yeah, okay," and the speed of his response surprises even him. The startled silence doesn't last long before Sam gives a shove and pins him with fast, eager kisses.

"You sure you're all right?" he asks when Dean flinches again.

"I'm _fine_ , ya pussy," Dean says, eyes rolling at the concern (they were just cupcakes). He _has_ had worse, he's a Winchester after all.

Besides, he can think of all _kinds_ of ways for Sam to distract him from the pain. Sam seems to be on the same page, so no complaints there, and nothing stabs him this time as Sam descends to stake his claim and Dean hangs on for the ride.

They don't hold much longer to just kissing. Not when there's so much new territory to explore by touch. Twenty minutes ago Dean didn't even know he wanted this. Now he needs it _all_. Maybe not all at once, but more than _this_. Making out and rubbing at each other through too many clothes feels good, delicious, _perfect_ , but all it does is work him into a bright, burning frenzy of need for _more_.

Sam is right there with him (thank _god_ ), moaning into his mouth, hands tight and possessive where they grasp at Dean's ass through denim. Sam got between his thighs somehow, and Dean feels pretty good about that, wraps his legs around his brother's waist and grinds up into pressure and heat and he still needs _more_.

"Dean," Sam says, laughs right in his ear as one hand slips maddeningly between their bodies to fumble with zippers.

"Sam," says Dean, no more helpful in response. He nips at Sam's jaw and tries to coax him down into another kiss.

" _Dean_ ," Sam repeats, stronger this time, and Dean swallows the urge to growl when Sam draws far enough back to prop both arms against the mattress and look him in the eye. Dean sees a spark of _something_ looking back at him, amusement maybe, and what could possibly be funny at a time like this?

"God, Sam, _what_?"

Sam is smirking outright now, and Dean wants to kiss him or hit him, isn't really sure which.

"Dean, I can't get our pants off like this. Not that I mind the sentiment, but--"

Oh. _That's_ a moment of revelation, attack of the obvious, and Dean _really_ wants their pants gone, along with everything else. He drops his legs to either side and gives a shove. Sam gives way easily, clears the space between them just enough to maneuver, and Dean strips _fast_. He gets naked quicker than he ever has in his life, and once he's tossed every scrap of clothing across the room, he still has time to help Sam yank his t-shirt over his head.

They crash into each other, instant and inevitable, desperate skin across desperate skin, and Dean thinks about slipping down the bed to suck Sam off. He thinks better of it a second later, knows he'd rather have a drink or two in him before trying _that_ for the first time. His mouth is occupied now anyway, Sam's tongue making itself at home, and the velvet friction of Sam's body against his own is already boiling Dean's blood right in his veins.

"What are we doing, Sammy?" he asks, needs direction or distraction, and he's not sure which.

"Don't ask stupid questions," Sam snarls between taunting bites along his throat.

"How long you been thinking about this?" Dean tries instead, and this time Sam pulls away. Just enough to meet his eyes, and Dean has to lick his lips, _has_ to, which he knows isn't fair when they're all swollen with kissing _Sam_ , but he does it anyway.

"Too long," Sam manages to answer. "Years." There's a new look of challenge in his eyes, _daring_ Dean to make something of it. Dean doesn't want to make it a _thing_ , he just wants to know.

"So you've got all _kinds_ of ideas," he says, reaching up to run a thumb along Sam's lower lip, slick and swollen just like his own. "What do you want to do to me, Sammy?"

Sam groans at the question, buries his face against Dean's throat and rocks into the cradle of his body. Dean welcomes the slide of heat and skin, wraps his legs around Sam's thighs, no denim in the way this time.

Sam doesn't answer him right away. Kisses him again first, then pulls back a quarter inch to hover in Dean's space, breathe in Dean's air with greedy lungs.

"Want to open you up and fuck you, Dean," he says. "Want to blow you so hard you can't see straight." Dean's whole body shudders with anticipation, and Sam grins against his lips. "Not tonight, though." Sam rocks against him again, sure and deliberate, and Dean thrusts right up into it, and again, wonders how Sam can still be talking when Dean is so close his brain is melting.

Because Sam _is_ still talking, still speaking right into the air that Dean is trying to breathe. He sounds ragged, at least, rough-edged and breathy and even has to pause and gasp before he can continue again.

"Don't have the stuff to fuck you." Thrust, gasp, slide. "Don't have the _patience_ to blow you." Shudder, whimper, groan. "Maybe--oh god--next time." And Sam is gasping again, growling Dean's name and holding him tight and close, and the heat tastes so good that Dean can't _think_.

Neither of them lasts long after that, loud groans ripping the air apart and fingers leaving desperate bruises where they both hold on too hard.

It's a long moment coming down, a nearby pair of boxers to wipe them both clean, and Dean can't breathe again until Sam pulls him close. Holds him in like something that really goddamn matters, and Dean can't bring himself to complain about the cuddling.

They end up under the blankets somehow, through more of Sam's clever maneuvering, and Dean feels his eyelids getting heavy. He fights the sleep in his system, doesn't want the moment to pass before he can process it. Surreal but good, and he wonders if this is the moment everything changes. His stomach growls, suddenly loud and insistent, and things don't really feel all that different.

"Give me the cupcakes," he says.

"Like hell," Sam grumbles, burrows in closer against him. "You can finish them tomorrow. They already tried to kill you once tonight."

"And I'm sure they're not stupid enough to try it again." He doesn't need to see Sam to know his brother's eyes are rolling.

Sam still doesn't comply, and Dean doesn't bother repeating his demand. The covers are scratchy on his naked skin, Sam smooth and hot against him like his own Sam-shaped furnace. He puts up with it for a minute or two before throwing the top layer of blankets to the floor. Another five minutes before the silence needs destroying.

"So. Rings?" he asks, deliberately tucking his head up under Sam's chin. "Seriously, you want a ring?"

"Just seems like the practical thing to do," Sam mutters, and Dean can hear the blush in his voice.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, even though 'practical' isn't really the word he'd use. "We can do rings. No flowers or girly ceremonies, though." And sure as hell no churches, because there are lines and there are _lines_.

"I dunno, dude." Sam smirks into his hair and Dean can _feel_ it. "I think you'd look so _pretty_ in a white dress."

"Oh, it is _on_ , bitch." He's up in an instant, straddling his brother and trying to keep the upper hand, wondering if there's any way to get at the remaining cupcakes without surrendering his hold. The wrestling doesn't stay innocent for long, the two of them still very much naked, and so much more than brothers. Dean has a fleeting thought that the shift shouldn't be this easy, but the newfound shades of their relationship feel as natural as the protective instincts hardwired into his brain.

Round two is even better than the first, and messier, but it doesn't stop Dean from rubbing cupcake in Sam's hair the next morning.

As it turns out, victory smells like frosting. And as he watches Sam grumble and hop in the shower (to wash clean of sugar and other things), Dean can't fight off his own wide, stupid smile.

He never expected to see thirty, but Sam is with him (really _with_ him) and suddenly Dean has a rest-of-his-life to look forward to. So much more than he's ever bothered imagining, and it's not long before he follows Sam into the bathroom.

His brother probably needs help washing the frosting out of his hair. Maybe help with other things, too, and Dean is more than happy to assist.

If he's good, maybe Sam will buy him more cupcakes.


End file.
